


The end of Matt Murdock

by Jonah_Smith_907



Series: Some fluff shit, some rough shit. [5]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Like really fucking dark, Lots of Angst, Suicidal Matt, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, there is no happiness in here, yo this shit's dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 15:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16813774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jonah_Smith_907/pseuds/Jonah_Smith_907
Summary: He was only five years old, his skin still warm and soft. 'Such a sweet little boy', Matt thinks and wipes a silent tear from his cheek. 'So innocent. More innocent than I ever was.'The boy deserved to be saved, deserved to live. He died instead. Matt can't help but think that it would be better if it was the other way around. If he was dead, instead of the boy. Because he doesn't deserve this life. He can't make a difference, anyway.He's useless.BEWARE OF THE TRIGGERSGraphically described suicide attempt





	The end of Matt Murdock

**Author's Note:**

> AGAIN A TRIGGER WARNING: in this fic there is a suicide very graphically described. If you do not want to or you can't read things like these, I highly urge you not to read this!!

It was a bad night. Of course there are always bad phases, people he can't safe, crimes he can't prevent. But tonight has been exceptionally bad and it only adds to the pile of disappointments and fails that is his life. 

He was only five years old, his skin still warm and soft. 'Such a sweet little boy', Matt thinks and wipes a silent tear from his cheek. 'So innocent. More innocent than I ever was.'

The boy deserved to be saved, deserved to live. He died instead. Matt can't help but think that it would be better if it was the other way around. If he was dead, instead of the boy. Because he doesn't deserve this life. He can't make a difference, anyway. 

He's useless.

He doesn't go home when he realises it's already sunrise. There's things he needs to do. Preparations he has to take care of. He doesn't really notice the way, doesn't consciously think about where he's going, doesn't need to. He's gone this way many times. Too many times. 

Matt quietly knocks on the backdoor. He can hear Melvin rummaging around inside, knows he'll be surprised. The suit isn't damaged. It will be, but not yet. Not from a fight. It needs to be taken care of. 

The door opens. He can hear Melvin sucking in a surprised breath. Right. No suit. He's wearing a hoodie instead. Like on the day he first got the costume. He doesn't think his face is hidden very well. It doesn't matter, though. Not any more. 

“What are you doing here, Mr. Daredevil?”, Melvin asks. His heart is racing. 

“You have to do me a favour.”, Matt answers. He faintly notices how hollow he sounds. It doesn't surprise him. He doesn't have the strength to keep pretending he's fine. He hasn't been in a long time, always just too close to his breaking point. He tried to fight it, tried to find the positive sides to life, tried to let Foggy's light fight the darkness inside of him. It didn't work though; not for long. Foggy is gone, doesn't want Matt in his life any more. Matt understands. He really does, he can't live with himself either.

“Betsy said I shouldn't help you any more,” Potter says and fidgets with his shirt. “She said it's not good.”

“It's going to be the last thing you'll ever have to do for me,” Matt replies with an empty smile. “I promise.” It's going to be the last thing anyone will ever have to do for him. 

Melvin seems to be debating with himself, whether he should help the vigilante or not. Eventually he gives a short nod. “What do you need?”

Matt hands him the suit. 

He doesn't do it right away. He can't leave without cleaning up his mess; he needs to organize a few things. Put his stuff into boxes, for instance. Write an explanation for the police. And two letters.

'The letters will be hard,' he thinks. He's not good with friends. Although maybe they're not really his friends any more. He doesn't know. He didn't have much experience with friends to know how big of a betrayal is too big. They still deserve letters. He owes them that much. 

Packing takes a while. Not very long, but Matt is still mildly surprised about all the things he finds that he has to sort into boxes. Little things. Things that once carried a meaning, that once were important to him; but not any more. Things like his rosary. 

The next thing he does is chose his clothes. It has to be a nice suit. Something he doesn't wear often, something he can wear to a funeral. He finds the suit he wore on Ben's funeral. He softly strokes the smooth fabric before putting it aside. The rest of his clothes he neatly folds and places them in another box. He wonders if he forgot something. He doesn't like the thought of Foggy having to go through his flat. The flat where it will have happened. He doesn't want to put that on him. He'll have to do enough already. 

Matt puts on the suit, adjusting his tie out of habit, doesn't forget the shoes, either.

After that he labels the boxes. There's 'Kitchen', 'Clothes', 'Paperwork', 'Toiletries' and 'Other', all carefully written by hand. He doesn't usually write by hand, it always takes long and if he isn't cautious, it looks sloppy and messy. He takes his time today. Everything has to be in order. 

Then he finally starts with the letters. He spends a good ten minutes trying to decide with which one he'll begin, the one for the police, Karen's or Foggy's. In the end he writes a short note for the police, explaining that he wants everything he owns to be given to Foggy and Karen. They can decide what to keep and what to give away. He explains that there was no other way for him to find peace. It's nobody's fault.

Then he writes Karen's. He isn't sure whether he'll have the strength to do anything after he's done with Foggy's. He's also scared of it. He's scared that he won't be able to explain everything properly, that he'll only hurt his friend more. He doesn't want to hurt him. Not any more. 

He doesn't cry when he sets the pen to the paper, using a ruler so the lines will be straight. He doesn't cry when he folds the letter and neatly writes her name on the outside. He doesn't cry. Not yet.

He puts the letter onto the couch-table. 

Afterwards Matt sets to Foggy's text. It takes him four attempts until he finally finds a beginning he likes. His hand shakes every so slightly; he worries that now it won't look so good any more, but he doesn't want to start over because it might only get worse. He can't fight the tears this time. They run down his cheeks and drop to the floor, some hitting the paper. He's crying, but he's still calm. It's probably a bad sign, that he's still calm. He should be … something. Scared, maybe, or sad or angry. Anything. But Matt is only empty, it's like there's fog inside of him, numbing his senses and thoughts and emotions.

He hates that feeling: his chest cold and heavy, yet filled with nothing; it leaves him wanting to scream against the void inside of him. But if he starts screaming, he might not be able to stop. And he can't lose his composure like that, has to stay strong. Has to stay strong until the very end.

He takes a break after he's put Foggy's letter next to Karen's.

He enters the bathroom and goes through his stack of razor-blades. He thinks that for this special occasion he should use a new one. The old one already smells like blood. Matt even put on a nice suit, so why not use a nice blade? He throws the old ones into the trash and puts the new one into his pocket. 

Then he remembers that he still has to take out the trash. He sighs. He knew he's forgotten something. He puts on his glasses and collects the two plastic-bags from the bathroom and the kitchen. They're not very full, but still. It will bug him if he doesn't take them out. For a second he's tempted to leave his cane at the flat, it seems so much work to take it with him, but then he thinks that he cannot raise the suspicion of nosy neighbours that might get the idea to ring at his door. He just hopes his eyes aren't red from crying.

On his way back upstairs he meets the neighbour from downstairs. He can hear her smile before she even speaks and he wishes she'd just ignore him, but of course he isn't that lucky.

“Matt,” she greets him. She's a little younger than him and he knows that she's been trying to get his attention for some time now, but he couldn't let her get close. “How are you?” She sounds happy and Matt wonders if he looks happy, too. He's good at faking, but that doesn't mean it works all the time. It wouldn't surprise him if it didn't work today. 

He still smiles back at her. “Hi.” He doesn't even know her name. He's sure she's introduced herself at some point, but he either didn't listen or he forgot. “I'm fine, thank you.”

“You look a little pale.” Her voice changes into something more worried. Matt wishes he hadn't left his flat at all. “You sure you're okay?” At least she doesn't mention his eyes, so maybe he doesn't look that bad.

“I'm just tired.” He isn't. Or maybe he is, but by now he doesn't know what not-being-tired feels like any more. Probably nice and warm. He feels lonely and cold. It's not anything new. 

“Oh, okay.” She smiles at him again. At least she isn't awkward around him because he's blind. “That's a nice suit, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Any special occasion?” She's probably thinking about a birthday or a wedding or something equally positive.

He shakes his head slightly. “Funeral,” he says. Yes, a funeral. His own. He needs to look good on his funeral. 

Her heart skips a beat; he can hear her breath hitch. She sounds apologetic now. “I'm sorry.”

“It's alright. We weren't close.” He hasn't felt like himself in a long time, like he's detached from himself, so it's not even a lie. 

“Well, I won't keep you for longer, then.”

“Thank you.” He turns around and leaves, doesn't even say goodbye. He shortly wonders if it would have been politer to say something more, with him being dead soon and all. But they don't even know each other very well, so he figures it makes no difference. 

He doesn't lock the door behind him when he enters his flat again. There's no need to. 

Then he calls Foggy. Matt says he needs to talk with him about something, but it still has time. If they want to meet at his place at six? Yeah, why not. Should Foggy bring food? No, Matt already ate. See you then. Matt hangs up. 

Now comes the difficult part: where? 

Not the bathroom, that'd be ungracious. Besides, it would be difficult to get all the blood off the floor. So perhaps the bedroom is a better choice. Matt decides that it's always going to be messy, no matter where he does it. And the bed is still the most peaceful place in his flat. It doesn't carry as many bad memories as the couch. 

He walks into the bedroom and closes the door behind himself. 

The problem is his suit. If he leaves it on, it'll get dirty. If he doesn't, somebody will have to dress his dead and cold body. But maybe that's the standard procedure anyway?

Matt sighs. He didn't imagine this to be as complicated as it is. He sets his glasses on the bedside table, takes off his suit again and neatly places it on a chair next to the bed. Now he's standing in the cool room with only his briefs on. He fishes the razor-blade out of the pocket of the suit.

He's nervous. He's not sure why, but he is. What if it doesn't work? What if he gets interrupted? There'd be so many questions, so many people he'd have to talk to. Foggy would be disappointed. 

No, it can't go wrong. It won't. 

Matt lays down on his silk-sheets, one last time running his hands over the soft fabric, lets it slide through his rough fingers, consciously feeling the softness on the skin of his scarred back. 

It has to be about four o'clock now. He should get started.

He presses the blade into the skin of his left wrist, where he hears the most blood streaming through his veins. He doesn't give any indication of the pain. He feels the sting, feels the warmth running down his arm, but he doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate. He pulls the cool metal up, from his wrist to the middle of his inner arm, towards his body. The cut is deep and more blood oozes onto the bed, where it's being soaked up hungrily by the sheets until they can't take it any more and it pools into puddles. 

He repeats the action on his right arm. Then he puts the by now slippery blade onto the bedside table. He's still calm. Although he's crying again, silently and without the urge to sob, he's in a state of peaceful calm. He has his eyes wide open and keeps his senses focussed on his surroundings, until black spots take over his world on fire, as his body gets heavier; as if he's drowning. 

His eyes are still open when he lets himself fall into the darkness. 

Foggy doesn't expect the call from Matt. They haven't had contact in a while, both busy figuring out their lives. So he's pleasantly surprised when Matt asks if he can come over at six. He's so happy to see his old friend again, he offers to buy food, but Matt declines. He ate already. 

For a second Foggy wonders if he should bring food, anyway, but then he remembers his friend's sensitive nose. He doesn't like the smell of food in his flat when he's not hungry.

So now he's standing in front of Matt's door, hesitating before he knocks. He doesn't get an answer. “Matt, it's me, Foggy,” he calls. Again there's no answer. “I'll come through the roof if this door is locked!”, he threatens and tries the door. It swings open and the heavy scent of iron welcomes him into the dark and cool apartment. 

Foggy knows the second he identifies the scent. He freezes in the short hallway, doesn't bother to close the door. Dread settles in his stomach, his heart is racing, his hands are shaking. After several seconds he finds the courage to keep walking. His steps are slow and heavy, he doesn't want to find Matt. He doesn't want to be the one who explains to the police why his best friend is a vigilante. 

He doesn't want to find his best friend dead.

He's sure Matt got injured while he was out on patrol. Got injured and was too stubborn to call him or Claire or somebody. Maybe if Foggy hadn't abandoned him, he would have called. 

He faintly notices the boxes in the living room before finally he reaches the bedroom. He needs a few more seconds until he manages to open the door. He enters – and wants to throw up. This is so much worse than anything he could have ever imagined. He faintly notices that he's panting, his hands are still shaking, his legs, too. 

Matt is laying on the bed, only wearing briefs. His arms are at his sides, long gashes evidence of what he's done. The sheets underneath him are soaked with blood, even the sides of his stomach are red, his chest is still. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, in the same way a child would look at the stars in wonder. 

Some people say that eyes are the windows to our souls. But as Foggy looks down at Matt, his eyes empty, staring into nothingness, he thinks, maybe now those windows are open so that his soul can fly out and arise to heaven, resting in peace for all of eternity, waiting for him. 

He hopes Matt is in heaven. He doesn't deserve anything less than the best.

Foggy stares at his best friend, laying dead in front of him. For several minutes he can't bring himself to move, until finally he turns around and walks out of the room as if he's on auto-pilot. He isn't crying. He just feels empty, like suddenly everything he's ever felt has disappeared, like it's been sucked out of his body. 

He finds the three letters on the couch-table. One of them is addressed to Karen, one to Foggy. The short note is marked with 'Police' in neat handwriting. 

'Right,' he thinks. 'I should call someone.' Probably Karen, first. Then Brett. 

He holds Karen when she rushes in, already crying. He holds her a little closer when she sees Matt. He points at the bedroom when Brett arrives, hands him the note.

He doesn't remember the next hour, doesn't think he's answered nearly enough questions. 

Eventually he finds himself back in his own flat, Matt's letter in his hands. It's written by hand, something Matt doesn't do very often. Didn't. He didn't do it very often. 

He can't read it. He can't, yet he has to. He owes Matt that much. He abandoned him. If he hadn't, maybe Matt would have come to him for help, maybe he wouldn't have felt the need to do … this.

Foggy knows there's no real use in blaming himself, but he can't help but think about what could have been, if. 

He's still not crying. It's like something is blocking the tears. He has to read the letter; maybe then the dam will break. 

The writing is shaky, as if the hands that held the pen were trembling. In some places the ink has smudges, shaped like tears that fell from some hight. Matt's tears.

Foggy reads the text. He manages to keep his composure until the very end, his face a carefully constructed, expressionless mask. And then he reads the last lines, has to see with his own eyes how self-loathing Matt really was, has to see how many times he apologizes for being a burden and for being a bad friend. Has to see how much he hates himself. 

That he is better off without the world. Or rather that the world is better off without him.

'I'm sorry. It's not your fault, Foggy. I love you.'

His heart shatters as he breaks down crying, tears streaming down his face; he slides off his couch, doesn't have enough strength to sit upright, the desperation clawing at his chest. He cries and cries and his shoulders are shaking with how hard he's sobbing, barely getting enough air into his lungs. 

Marci finds him, eventually, sees him sitting on the floor, a single sheet of paper in his hands. She doesn't have to ask, Karen called her. She sits down next to her boyfriend and pulls him to her chest, stroking his back soothingly, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear until he calms down and falls asleep, exhausted from all the crying. 

The funeral is two days later. Matt is dressed in the black suit. Somebody put his cane in his cold hands. Foggy steps to the coffin and adds the red glasses. He has his composure back up, but his eyes are rimmed red from all the crying of the previous days. 

There aren't many people there to serve their last respects. Only Foggy, Karen, the Defenders, Claire and Marci. It's Father Lantom who leads the ceremony. He's close to tears, too. There's also a nun, who's sitting in the back, tears silently streaming down her cheeks. She leaves early.

At the end of the week, Daredevil's costume is found in the river, cut into pieces. Melvin has put it there. He doesn't like it that Daredevil just left. He thinks the vigilante did good. He liked the man without fear, so brave, always trying to help. 

He puts the pieces together when he hears about the suicide of the lawyer Matthew Murdock. He isn't stupid, he recognizes that jawline and that chin. He wonders how it came to this.

He goes to Betsy that night and he tells her, but he makes her promise she won't tell anybody. She doesn't say it, but he feels her sadness. He knows she always said she doesn't like Daredevil, but he thinks that maybe she only said it because it's her job. She is a cop, after all. 

They cry together on the couch and pretend the reason for their tears is the movie they're watching. They hold each other close and grief together about their lost hero. 

Matt didn't think he was important, yet he touched so many lives. He will be mourned by all those who lost Daredevil, by all those who lost Matt Murdock, lawyer and friend. Mourned by all those he saved, all those he helped. He will be mourned. He'll never be forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope y'all are doing okay


End file.
